


May The Dread Wolf Take You

by Hobbotch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbotch/pseuds/Hobbotch
Summary: A snippet of a thought about the origins of 'may the Dread Wolf take you'
Kudos: 2





	May The Dread Wolf Take You

**Author's Note:**

> Inquisition caused many things to be viewed in a new light. I know Solas mentioned this as a Dalish curse, but I can’t help but think “may the Dread Wolf take you” started as an ancient Elvhen prayer for freedom which turned into a curse after the creation of the Veil and opinion turned against Fen’Harel. Much like other lore and lexicon changes.

Keep it cold. The colder the better. Sure my fingertips burn from frostbite, but it is better than a lashing for poorly made tarts. Cold. Cold. Cold. I continue my mantra helping me focus my mana as I quickly work to roll out the dough and load my greased tart pans. A dance I’ve done many times, but still fear what will happen if I produce less than perfectly flaky delicate crusts. With the tins filled, the dough the riding the line between thin enough to snap but thick enough to support, I prick it with a fork to prevent it bubbling up when Athran walks into the kitchen. His arms loaded with fresh groceries. He purposely catches my eye on my way to the hearth. He has gossip. Athran always has the best gossip and newest news. Being allowed out of the house and into the busy markets and shops a major reason why. I save him extra scraps from the kitchen for extra scraps of knowledge. Sometimes those tiny bits of information are the only thing keeping me going. With my tart shells baking, I head back to my station, already partially claimed by Athran to unload his crates and bags. 

“They caught Nehn,” he remarks loudly for the whole kitchen staff to hear and later spread throughout the house. Murmurs fill the kitchen. Everyone trying to place themselves closest to her, act as if they are a part of the story. But they aren't. They didn't know her. I knew her. Nehn taught me how to bake. She saved me from pot washing or worse. She tried to show me there was more to life than this. I loved the pretend life we daydreamed about if we lived only for ourselves. A little cottage with a garden growing fresh fruits and vegetables for our bakery. In a little town where we knew everyone to the point we could pack up their order the second they walked into the bakery. She wanted a library. I wanted a pet cat or maybe a bird, sometimes both. I almost went with her.

“Hope they bring her back soon. Kitchen was already short handed before her latest escape,” I say flatly, going for neutral and boring. Never know who is listening. It feels wrong but I'm happy she was caught. That I'll get to see her again. I don't have to be alone anymore. Nehn is back. I feel a lighter, springy as I grab my knife to quarter my figs. I still ensure my knife cuts are exact and consistent. They are the jewels on my tarts. Doesn't matter how perfect my tart cases are if they are ugly. 

“She isn't coming back. Embarrassed Master by escaping too many times. Made him look weak and unable to control his house,” he says. I deflate. She's going to be sold. I won't see her again. I almost went with her but I chickened out at the last second. Too afraid of what would happen if caught. I'm pushing too hard on my figs. I bruise one. I can't use a mushy fig. I slide it off my cutting board to Athran. He's always loved them and I'm not up for pilfered food. 

“Any word where she will be sent?” I know this betrays me, but I can easily explain my interest from how close we worked together. Doesn't mean we were friends or conspired together. She left and I stayed. No need to worry I'll be troublesome. He pockets my figgy gift, with a look out the corner of his eye. The kind he gives when I fish for information. Honestly a mushy fig is well worth the cost if he could tell me what family bought Nehn.

“She was gifted to Ghilan'nain.” 

The knife clatters on the counter top, barely missing my finger. Everyone is silent for a moment. Everyone knows what that means. Ghilan'nain is the ultimate threat of punishment for escaping slaves. And oh how they love to spread rumors about her. Ensure we know. Don't behave and you'll be flayed alive for leather or turned into some monstrous beast or subjected to whatever her newest experiment is. Death is kinder. And now she has Nehn. I almost went with her but then I chickened out at the last second making her escape alone. I left her alone. Could I have saved her or would I also be screaming in Ghilan'nain's temple chained beside her? I abandoned her and I'll never get to apologize. I'll never see Nehn again.

“May the Dread Wolf take her,” escapes me before I can think better of it. But thankfully the clamor of the kitchen has already picked back up. No one acknowledges the treasonous words. No one but Athran.

“You'll burn if you aren't careful,” he says eyes boring into me. “Your tarts,” he adds with a nod of his head. His heavy gaze returning to normal. A clear warning. I should know better than to evoke Fen'Harel, especially out in the open where anyone could hear me. Turn in me. But I can't help to hope the Wolf's agents will free her. Take her far away to that little cottage we dreamed of. He is her only hope. Our only hope. Dread Wolf take us all.


End file.
